down with the economy. Granted, for society as a whole, fewer breakups might even be seen as a plus, but it had a negative effect on my practice, and it threw a serious dent in my margarita fund. I was even starting to take a fresh look at areas of law that I would never have considered before, such as personal injury law. Trial lawyer ugh ! I hate courtrooms, but I hate ambulance chasers even more. Ear to the police scanner, they roam the halls of medical centers, ready to flash a crisp business card to anyone dim enough or desperate to take it. The notion of having to associate with one of those Botox-stiff lawyers promoting themselves with cheesy television ads made my skin crawl. But the hard fact remained: personal injury law, unlike family law, is one area unaffected by economic cycles. I was sure their cash flows didn’t even reflect the fact that that the rest of the economy had been in the doldrums for three years and counting.
I opened the teak door and went inside the air-conditioned cabin... and stopped dead to marvel at the image before me. The sensuous female form, the sweet bouquet of fine perfume, patchouli, and sandalwood incense, the soft, hypnotic drone of sitar and tamboura, all combined to evoke the notion of tantric Zen: the perfect woman, young, vibrant, sensual and desirable, in blissful harmony with her environment.
Nora was seated in a lotus position on the main cabin floor, legs elegantly tucked beneath her, eyes closed, the backs of her hands resting comfortably on her knees, palms facing up. She had moved a pair of leather chairs that completed the three-piece living room area of the main cabin out of the way, to give her as much floor space as possible. She wore flimsy black tights and a form-fitting white spaghetti top that did little to hide her magnificent figure. Where the skimpy top ended, I could see her lean obliques moving with her every breath. Her hair held back in a neat ponytail, and a thin film of sweat gleamed against her smooth, tanned skin.
I watched in silence. Not only was she beautiful and blessed with a body to die for, this was also a woman who baited her own hooks and could gaff a thrashing fish without hesitation. A woman who, despite a terrifically bad experience with an alcoholic ex-husband, was not overbearing or neurotic. Dr. Nora Burton, Wesleyan alumna, Penn State Medical School grad, fellow in good standing of the American College of Clinical Oncology, was a class act in every way; from the refined ways in which she wore her strawberry blond shoulder-length hair, her understated choice in clothing, to her minimalist use of jewelry which primarily consisted of a single strand of pearls around her perfectly shaped neck, a very basic-looking platinum Rolex Mariner on her left wrist and several delicate gold bangles on the right. Yes, she was a keeper. If I were looking for a lifelong kind of thing.
I met Nora two years earlier, during the worst period in my life. She had been one of the attending physicians in my father’s final battle with brain cancer. It had been a difficult time for her as well, dealing with her husband’s alcohol addiction and a rapidly crumbling marriage. I helplessly watched as my father’s life withered away; bit by bit, day by day, consumed by cancer. Nora endured her own version of hell; painful realizations, betrayal and intense feelings of despair born out of heartbreak. We were lucky to have met when we did. It seemed as though God, the Universe, the Ultimate Being whatever we choose to call him, her, or it just might have our best interests at heart after all.
When we first met it had been almost instant attraction, as if mutual misery was a magnetic beacon drawing us closer and closer. I saw the deep sadness in her big blue yes, her obvious kindness distorted by personal anguish. Some believe that the eyes are the window to the soul. I’m usually not a big believer; seen a number of individuals crafty enough to fool even the most
I opened the teak door and went inside the air-conditioned cabin... and stopped dead to marvel at the image before me. The sensuous female form, the sweet bouquet of fine perfume, patchouli, and sandalwood incense, the soft, hypnotic drone of sitar and tamboura, all combined to evoke the notion of tantric Zen: the perfect woman, young, vibrant, sensual and desirable, in blissful harmony with her environment.
Nora was seated in a lotus position on the main cabin floor, legs elegantly tucked beneath her, eyes closed, the backs of her hands resting comfortably on her knees, palms facing up. She had moved a pair of leather chairs that completed the three-piece living room area of the main cabin out of the way, to give her as much floor space as possible. She wore flimsy black tights and a form-fitting white spaghetti top that did little to hide her magnificent figure. Where the skimpy top ended, I could see her lean obliques moving with her every breath. Her hair held back in a neat ponytail, and a thin film of sweat gleamed against her smooth, tanned skin.
I watched in silence. Not only was she beautiful and blessed with a body to die for, this was also a woman who baited her own hooks and could gaff a thrashing fish without hesitation. A woman who, despite a terrifically bad experience with an alcoholic ex-husband, was not overbearing or neurotic. Dr. Nora Burton, Wesleyan alumna, Penn State Medical School grad, fellow in good standing of the American College of Clinical Oncology, was a class act in every way; from the refined ways in which she wore her strawberry blond shoulder-length hair, her understated choice in clothing, to her minimalist use of jewelry which primarily consisted of a single strand of pearls around her perfectly shaped neck, a very basic-looking platinum Rolex Mariner on her left wrist and several delicate gold bangles on the right. Yes, she was a keeper. If I were looking for a lifelong kind of thing.
I met Nora two years earlier, during the worst period in my life. She had been one of the attending physicians in my father’s final battle with brain cancer. It had been a difficult time for her as well, dealing with her husband’s alcohol addiction and a rapidly crumbling marriage. I helplessly watched as my father’s life withered away; bit by bit, day by day, consumed by cancer. Nora endured her own version of hell; painful realizations, betrayal and intense feelings of despair born out of heartbreak. We were lucky to have met when we did. It seemed as though God, the Universe, the Ultimate Being whatever we choose to call him, her, or it just might have our best interests at heart after all.
When we first met it had been almost instant attraction, as if mutual misery was a magnetic beacon drawing us closer and closer. I saw the deep sadness in her big blue yes, her obvious kindness distorted by personal anguish. Some believe that the eyes are the window to the soul. I’m usually not a big believer; seen a number of individuals crafty enough to fool even the most
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